


Close to the Flame

by PinstripesAndConverse



Category: City of Love: Paris (Visual Novel), Ubisoft City of Love: Paris
Genre: F/M, I'm very serious if you haven't played S2E9 yet please don't read, S2E9 from Vincent's POV, Spoilers, ignores previous pieces I've written on the pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11991315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse
Summary: Vincent's thoughts from S2E9; spoilers for the episode.  Ignores my previous pieces involving the pairing entirely as this follows the episode from Vincent’s POV, hints at Vincent’s side story.Title based off of the song, “Close to the Flame” by HIM.





	Close to the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I hint at what Vincent was up to when the MC called-it’s never confirmed exactly what he drops to help the MC find Marion. 2 of the 3 choices lead to either “you mean to tell me you don’t participate in swing-” or “I was otherwise very indisposed”. I don’t personally like to think of him as a swinger; if anything, maybe someone who occasionally hooks up but nothing else. 
> 
> Cross posted at Wattpad under SweetVenomKiss and at Tumblr under boughtmywayintopopculture.

He watched the color drain from her face as Marion’s words sank in.  The last time he saw her that devastated was the night they discovered the essence and he forced Raphael’s head into the ancient spring.  She was too angry and hurt the night she was brought to his jail cell to even process the truth, too determined to find out why for anything to even register properly.  Confusion crossed her features as she continued her questions, finally relenting when she got all of the answers she needed.  She looked tired in the past few days, true, but this…this was emotional exhaustion, grief pushed aside for the sake of the duty of friendship.  A friendship she thought she knew.

Her friend was going to betray the very city she dedicated her life to studying.  To preserving.

Vincent knew Katherine was up to dark things, but this?  Even he hadn’t heard anything about the botched bombing, and he heard about everything in Paris.  

 _Six months.  TJ returned six months ago, and has been hanging around Marcel’s widow, Alia.  Perhaps…_ he thought, trying to follow the trail of breadcrumbs Marion gave them.  

Eugene stepped out of the shadows and took Marion away in a pair of heavy-duty zip-ties at Vincent’s order.  He watched Eugene walk away for a moment but saw movement out of the corner of his eye, where she was standing to his left.  The American’s knees buckled and her eyes closed as she fainted; he reached out in time to catch her underneath her arms, supporting her as she fell unconscious.

“Even you have your limits, I’m afraid, Ms. (l/n).” He whispered, reaching down to lift her legs and carry her.  

 _At least she doesn’t live terribly far from here_. Vincent thought, looking down at her face, tension gone but her expression far from peaceful.  

He glanced around and got his bearings before beginning the walk to her flat at Canal Saint Martin.

* * *

The streets were quiet, Tuesday long gone and Wednesday barely starting.  He was used to long nights, the occasional one spent with someone in his arms to pass the time (and perhaps they looked a bit like the woman he was currently carrying), but it had been a while since he truly saw Paris at night, on foot.  He was thankful for the lack of police presence.  The last thing he needed was a cop stopping him, wondering why he was carrying an unconscious woman through the streets so late before recognizing his face and tossing him into the back of a cop car.  

He liked his freedom.  He would like to keep it.  

Eugene was kind, loyal, hard-working; he easily could have given the woman to him to bring home after dealing with the police, or hailed a cab rather than walking, risking himself like he was now.  But her safety mattered, her well-being mattered.  He would be damned if he left her alone to wake up with agonizing thoughts.  

A small part of him felt self-hatred for such a stupid notion; she was the one who arrested him, who put his greed in check, who fought fire with fire and wasn’t afraid to get hurt if it meant helping others.  She was a thorn in his side.

Was.

What was she now?  Without the bars between them, working for the same goal of saving Paris, with different methods, different motivations?

Certainly not an enemy.  Not anymore.

Vincent recognized her building as he came around the corner, spotting a long-haired feline with a heart-shaped outline at its chest sitting on the balcony, watching.  He hadn’t missed the scratches on Marion’s hands earlier; the cat was very much like its owner, independent, brave, and ready to fight back.  

He peered down to find her still out cold, her head turned towards his chest, fitting perfectly in the crook of his elbow.  A mere half hour ago, her expression was heated, passionate, as she questioned Marion at Le Paradis, demanding answers she’d wanted for weeks.  Now it was neutral, an occasional eyebrow movement, but otherwise very still.

She didn’t bring a bag with her when she arrived at his cachette, which meant her keys were likely…in her pockets.  Even if they weren’t, he would feel odd entering her residence without being asked, seeing the most personal side of her without her say-so.  The last thing she needed was the man who had threatened to maim her or kill her entering her home without her invitation because he found her keys by _touching her_  and  _invading her personal privacy._

He was many things, but disrespectful of boundaries, taking advantage of people entirely unable to protect themselves?  Never.  Their history aside, he would rather be inconvenienced than deal with the headache being presumptuous brought on.  

He looked around, finding a bench near the canal, unoccupied.  He placed her down gently, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket and shedding it, draping it over her torso.  Her skin was cold in the fairly revealing top she wore; he doubted she thought ahead about grabbing a jacket of any kind in her chase for Marion.  He lifted her shoulders and head carefully as he turned to sit down, placing her head on his leg, her hair splayed out across his lap.

The lights from the buildings and the moon played across the quiet water, dancing with the ripples from frogs and fish.  

She had forced him to be polite, good, kind.  He was capable of such behavior, he just preferred not to use it.  The sweet tactic gave people the wrong idea, made them see him as open and approachable, a doormat.  In business, there was no room for anything except staying ahead, twisting situations to your advantage, not afraid to know what you want and how to get it.  He had not built his empire by being nice.  

In truth, the bad cop attitude suited her, at least in her grief.  She was right to be angry, to be hurt.

A voice in the back of head admitted it suited her for a very different reason.  He missed the light in her eyes while he was in jail, the playfulness that sparked when she irritated people or when she was piecing together parts of a case.  She cared, and how refreshing it was to find someone not jaded by the world, not entirely.  

She wasn’t afraid to push back, like she did when they were planning and insisted he be the good cop; if she had taken his offer years ago, he had the feeling she would have challenged him constantly, questioned him.

Perhaps things would have been different two years ago.  The American was loyal but knew she had a responsibility to question, to ask, to voice her doubts rather than passively exist to please someone else.  He could have used that, rather than a sycophantic suck-up with no taste for fashion.  He let his ego and greed get ahead of him and she would have kept that in check, forced him to consider doubts in order to ensure he didn’t get ahead of himself.

 _You at my side…would that have been so bad?_   He mused, looking down at her, color returning to her face finally.  

Vincent stared out at the canal for a moment, ignoring the impulse to play with her hair before pulling out his phone to text Eugene his whereabouts.

* * *

At some point, his legs got restless and he had to stand, carefully moving in order to not wake her unexpectedly.  Vincent watched her chest rise and fall under the dark fabric of his suit jacket for a moment before leaving the bench for a moment to stretch his legs.

Certainly not how he expected his night to go.  It was bordering on 3:00AM; Eugene offered to come and take his place but Vincent declined, determined to stick it out.

He knew too well what it was like to wake up and find out a harsh, agonizing truth about someone you cared about.  He had no one, refused Raphael’s help because he considered him culpable for Paul’s death.  Right now, she was alone.  All of her friends busy with their lives, or uninterested in helping her because they didn’t like Kat, or were too close, afraid to get hurt themselves.  The burden was already weighing on her as it was, as he knew it would.  No one should deal with that alone.

Kat was already gone but the journalist was clinging to hope for weeks it was all just…something gone wrong, that Kat wasn’t responsible for something dark, wasn’t saying horrible, hateful things, that despite the two years of separation, she still knew her best friend.  

She was a bright light, a bright brilliant light, too full of determination, passion, bravery, to be snuffed out by her own potential spiral of dark thoughts.  He wouldn’t let that happen.  If anyone was capable of fixing the disaster lying ahead for Paris, it was her.

 _Look at me, being noble.  That’s a first_ , he thought bitterly, gazing up to find the cat gone from her balcony, all of the buildings’ windows dark with sleep.   _But it’s true.  We have our differences but she came to me for help.  She’ll have it…when the time comes, she’ll have it._

He sat back down, next to her, not wanted to disturb her again.  Not long after, he heard a soft groan and turned to find her sitting up, blinking dazedly past him, her eyes falling on the boulangerie near her apartment.  

“What the…where…how did I get here?”  She murmured to herself, before looking down at Vincent’s suit jacket, even more confused than before.

Unsure of how to approach her (as much as he liked scaring people, he knew when it was appropriate to do so), he spoke softly, a tone similar to the one he took with Esteban when his dog was scared or hurt.

“Shh, it’s okay.  You just passed out.”  Her gaze fell to him, her eyes wide but the tension in her shoulders relaxing slightly, which was as much as he could hope for, being her enemy.  “I carried you home in my arms…but, uh…” He suddenly found himself being earnest as he continued, his eyes wide, a little embarrassed he would have to actually admit it aloud.  “It didn’t feel right rummaging in your pockets for your keys.”

He saw an eyebrow raise ever so slightly in surprise at him before murmuring a thank you, carefully handing him back his suit jacket.  He rose to put it back on, silently wishing he had urged her to keep it, give him a reason to return to her.  

And she truly looked cold.  That blouse was not meant to be worn while running around catching killers.

“How long have you been waiting for me to wake up?” She asked, watching him until he sat back down beside her.  

“A couple of hours…I think your body shut down in shock.”

 _Understandably so_ , Vincent thought.   _It’s not everyday you’re told everything you knew about someone was possibly a lie._

“How are you feeling now?  Does your head hurt?” He asked, the words coming to his lips before he even thought about them.  

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly, reading him, trying to figure out if his niceness was part of his act or was genuine.  “You can stop being nice to me now, we caught Marion, after all,”  she said.

Vincent laughed at her frankness, glad to be able to slip back into his true personality.  “Well, if you insist.  Playing good cop _really_  isn’t natural to me.”  He straightened his tie, the knot feeling crooked against his collar before casting his gaze directly at her.  “But you were a pretty impressive bad cop.  Indeed, you’re rather attractive when you play rough…”

_Not as if I haven’t toyed with you before, (f/n).  Although I admit none of those lines were ever truly empty…_

She fell back into her usual rapport quite easily, despite her previous state.  “Aw, thanks!  When I was young, I loved Poison Ivy.  She was venomously cool!”  

She did love her puns, this American.  He held back the urge to roll his eyes at her terrible play on words, however fitting it was.

“So, who do you think was the better cop?  Good or bad?”  He asked smugly, quite aware it might only lead to some amusing conversation before she found it in herself to go inside.

She hummed in thought for a moment.  “I’d say it was a draw…and we should both get a prize!”  

_So that’s your game, is it?  You look very amused with yourself for someone who’s only just woken up._

Vincent laughed.  He always did enjoy her odd tangents, to be fair; he might as well play along.  “What kind of prize do you have in mind?”

“Something we can share…”  She said, dropping her voice to a whisper as she inched closer to him on the bench as she spoke, a wicked charm in her eyes and an equally wicked smile crossing her lips.  If he didn’t know better, he’d say she had hit her head, but he had caught her before that could happen.  “…something I think both of us will enjoy…”

Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the long night but it wasn’t until she had shifted to straddle him that he realized what she meant and that he had let his guard too far.  “What the…”  His eyes went wide as he felt her hand grab his tie, pulling him away from the bench.  “Oh my!” he hissed as she pressed her lips to his, warm and soft.  

He felt her hand in his hair, grasping it firmly; he hissed softly, the sensation pleasurable.  She used the leverage to tilt his head back, deepening the kiss, her tongue finding his.  He felt his breath catch in his throat as she grazed her fingers along the base of his skull to adjust her hold on his hair.  His hands found her waist, the thin material doing nothing to hide her cool skin as his hands found the curve at the small of her back, keeping her pressed against him but only as much as she already allowed herself to be.  Certainly as close as two people could be without removing the barriers of clothing.  

She let out a barely audible moan at him touching her before breaking the kiss to look at him, the holds she had on his hair and tie keeping him in place.  He realized a large grin had broken out on his face when he saw her pleased expression at, once again, having gotten the best of him.

_Somehow I think I’ll always let you beat me.  If only to see that smirk on your face._

She kissed him again, just as fiercely as before, their chests touching, her body pressed against his as far as could be allowed, given their position.  He felt something in the pit of stomach, something he had only felt twice before: once when she had first entered his office, and again when she had confronted him in the sewers the night of his arrest, challenging him.  A spark.  Something.  He was never really sure what exactly it was.  His heart was beating loudly in his ears as her tongue met his again, drawing whatever breath he had in his lungs from him, leaving him breathless at the sensation.

He couldn’t remember the last person who made him feel…this.  Something beyond a carnal need, a hunger to be sated.  He wanted her but for her spirit, her fire, the challenge she provided him just by being her.  

_What are you, to me, (f/n)?  I don’t think we’ve been enemies for quite a while now…and you’ve only managed to confuse me more…_

She ended the kiss, drawing back gently with smaller, softer kisses, which he unconsciously followed until she pulled him back gently.

She released his hair, smoothing it, and fixed his tie as she spoke, “Well, how did you like that?”

He was at a loss for words.  Those that tried what she just did often ended up flipped underneath him rather quickly; he preferred to be in control, to be the dominant one.  Yet here she was, having done just that, looking quite pleased with herself at having stunned Vincent Karm into silence.  

“I…I don’t know…” he gasped.  “Do it again and I’ll tell you.”  

“Not tonight, sorry.”  Her reply was quick, almost nonchalant, but he caught the hint of sadness in her voice as she removed herself from his lap, straightening her shirt.

_Only you could disarm me so easily and get away with it._

He swallowed, standing and adjusting his tie, suddenly finding it hard to look at her.  “Oh, so does that mean goodnight?”

She wasn’t the first to turn down an evening with him, certainly; his intensity wasn’t for everyone.  He found himself slightly relieved at her answer, if only because it meant she wasn’t ruling out the possibility of another time.

“Yes,” she whispered, and he noticed the exhaustion catching up with her again as she blinked multiple times to keep her eyes from closing of their own accord.  “I don’t think I can keep my eyes open much longer.”

He felt the uneasiness and shock slip away from him as she rubbed an eye and they walked to her building, the journalist pulling out a Set of keys from her jean pockets.

“Sweet dreams, then.”  He stepped towards her, grazing her forehead with his lips before pulling back and giving her space.  “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

She whispered a thank you to him before turning and unlocking the front door; she grabbed it and pulled it closed behind her, ensuring it was latched before turning and heading up the stairs.

Vincent’s hand rose to feel his lips as he walked away, the sensation of her lips on his still fresh in his mind as he walked back through the early-morning streets.


End file.
